Nancy’s Theory of Style by Unknown Read Free Book Online Page A

together and gazed toward the ceiling. “It was like a magical fairy
tale.”
    “Please stop looking as if you’re having
a vision of the Virgin de Guadalupe because it’s seriously freaking me out.”
    Nancy stuck her tongue out at Milagro and
said, “Derek noticed an awful flower arrangement. It was as if he was trying to
sleep on one hundred Swedish mattresses, but couldn’t because he was so
exquisitely sensitive to the vulgarity of blue carnations.”
    “I couldn’t sleep in a room with blue
carnations and I’m not exquisitely sensitive. Is Derek diminutive with little rimless
glasses? That would be divine.”
    “Sadly, no. He’s tall and lanky, which are
generally fatal flaws in an assistant, but he is, as the French would say, beau
laid, ugly beautiful, because he’s still fabulous despite the non-spectacle
quality. His eyes are stunning. He has black lashes that make them intensely
azure, like, uhm…”
    “Like azures?”
    “I was thinking of something less
semi-precious. But sapphires are the wrong shade.”
    “Peculiar that Toad would fulfill one of
your fantasies, i.e., said gay English assistant, when he’s always been fixated
on his own crude wishes, i.e., offering you implants when you have always been
madly in love with your perky pair.”
    “They are marvelously perky, but Todd actually
thought I would want implants. He’s only aware of obvious trends and knows I
like to be fashionable,” Nancy said.
    “Nonetheless, I took umbrage on their
behalf,” Milagro said. “Does Derek have a sense of humor?”
    “He may. He thanked me for translating
American English into British English, and I’m hoping he was being dryly or
wryly sarcastic, but it’s too early to tell.”
    “Continue to hope. I always thought you
should be with someone who got your humor and realized that when you seem to be
joking, you’re serious and when you seem to be serious, you’re joking.”
    “You’re speaking of yourself, not me. Derek
can help me with my Theory of Style.”
    “How’s that going?”
    “Sometimes I worry that I’m like that
deluded prune in that novel you like, Middle Earth.”
    “Middlemarch. You mean Casaubon, who
spends his life writing the Key to All Mythologies, which is discovered to be
errant nitwittery only after his death.”
    “You know how I adore errant
nitwittery,” Nancy said, “but only when it’s intentional. That’s one of the problems with reading
fiction; it preys upon impressionable minds and implies that life has subtext,
when life is wont to ramble plotlessly along.”
    “I’ve been letting that idea percolate
lately,” Milagro said. “What if life isn’t actually utterly aimless?”
    “If it wasn’t, wouldn’t we eventually
see a pattern, like a pointillist painting? We would. We’d see connections and
structure and themes would resonate,” Nancy said. “What are you wearing to Gigi’s not-a-birthday party? And are you
bringing one of your lovers?”
    “A g-string and pasties, but I still haven’t
mastered twirling them in different directions. I already told you I’m not
going. Gigi’s friends have too much attitude. They look down their
surgically-altered noses at me.”
    “They look down on all nobodies. There’s
no need to take it personally. What can you expect when you insist on continue
to garden for Gigi?”
    “I need to augment my writing non-income
and my only other talent is forgery.”
    Nancy was about so say something fun and
bitchy, but just then a tall man stopped at their table. “Hi, Nancy ,” he said, and then, “Hey,” to Milagro.
    Nancy looked up and up and said, “Bailey!”
    Bailey Whiteside looked excitingly tall
in a periwinkle blue button-down shirt and slim-cut slacks. His sandy hair was
brushed straight back like an old matinee idol.
    “It’s been ages!” Nancy said. “Would you like to join us?”
    “Thanks, but I’m on my way out to a meet
some friends.” Bailey said in his gravelly voice. “Todd told